Hallowed Ground by Lori G. Armstrong Page B

plan would be a no-go if Roger worked the door. He’d remember me, since I’d knocked him on his ass once, which was part of the reason I’d been banned from the club.

    Thankfully, both guys were new. I doubted they’d posted a big sign by the cash box with my name, picture, and transgressions. Even though the incident in question had happened months ago, I had no clue how long the ban stayed in effect. Had these guys been warned about little ol’
    me?

    Four people. Then two. I didn’t smile as I passed over my ID and five bucks.

    The cute blond guy with muscles bigger than his head studied my driver’s license. I could almost hear him counting backward, to verify if I was old enough to drink. Ironic, since he looked about the same age as my paperboy.

    His baby blues met mine. “You don’t look thirty-four.”

    “Thanks.”

    He smiled broadly, a dimple winked in his smooth cheek, no doubt a practiced mannerism he considered charming, and probably got him laid on a regular basis.

    I had no choice but to remain unaffected.

    “Any relation to Tom Collins?” he asked, elbowing the other body-builder bouncer, and they both guffawed.

    “Yep.” I held out my hand, reminding him to fork over my ID. “He’s my first cousin.”

    His merriment gave way to confusion, but I’d already sidled past him into the main part of the bar.

    The place wasn’t packed yet, not good for my intent to blend in. I snagged an empty glass from a deserted table, settled back against the wall by the broken pay phone. Pretended to nurse my drink as I scoped out the joint.

    Fat Bob’s is three separate bars lumped together in one space. The main room is made up of the usual cheap tables, chairs, and booths lining the walls. A “U” shaped counter-style bar is in the middle of the room. The back area has a dance floor, juke box (all Skynard, all the time), pool tables, and dart boards. Beyond the back room is a beer garden, or so I’d heard. The last time I’d skulked in here I hadn’t had much time to learn the layout. I’d been too busy picking fights and getting tossed out on my rear.

    Some things never change.

    According to the Harley clock above the bar, a mere ten minutes had elapsed. I’d forgotten my cigarettes and decided to chance buying a pack from the bartender in the back room, when I saw him.

    His back was to me, but I’d recognize that hair and those tattoos anywhere.

    No big surprise he wasn’t alone.

    Despite the blood pulsing in time to “Two Steps” blaring from the speakers, I inched forward.
    Tricky, acting in a stealthy manner without it seeming like that was my game.

    A mere twenty feet separated us. Fifteen. Ten. I switched the black case from my left pocket to my right. For all intents and purposes, it looked like a cell phone.

    Two rotund floozies at the table beside me brayed with drunken laughter.

    He twisted slightly, gauging if the disturbance required his attention.

    I latched onto the back of an empty barstool, acting part of the revelry, but kept my chin tucked to my chest so he couldn’t see my face.

    He twisted back around and adjusted his stance.

    Perfect. I made my move.

    Four steps. I tapped him on the right shoulder. Before he’d turned completely, I inhaled and sucker-punched him as hard as I could, in the jaw, just like in the movies.

    Caught unaware, he staggered back. In the split second it took to regain his equilibrium, I shoved him against the wall, and jammed the stun gun underneath his chin.

    “Don’t fucking move a muscle, Harvey, or I swear to God I will fucking blast you.”

    Harvey blinked, which I assumed meant he understood.

    I figured I had maybe a minute, tops, before the bouncers showed up.

    He said, “Long time no see.”

    “Shut up.” My hand ached from where I’d hit him but I pressed the stun gun deeper into his neck anyway. “I can’t fucking believe you had someone follow me.”

    “What?”

    “Don’t play stupid,